


Heat

by msgenevieve



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Het, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-08
Updated: 2009-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's nice to feel as though you have a choice, even if there's no alternative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marap](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=marap).



> For marap, as a shamefully belated thank you for my beautiful banner, and also as a less shamefully beleated (but still belated) birthday wish.

~*~

 

“Chicken or beef?”

Pulling his gaze away from the sight of his brother and nephew engaged in an intense discussion at the end of the battered wooden pier, he looks at the woman standing in the doorway. She’s dressed more casually than he’s ever seen her (except when she’s naked in his arms, he thinks with a sudden flash of hunger that has nothing to do with his stomach) in denim shorts and a sleeveless shirt. There’s an air of breathlessness about her, something he suspects is a reaction to the first real day of their lives together, rather than the heat of the day. At least, he hopes it is, anyway. “In what context?”

Sara’s lips twitch in a smile she seems determined to suppress. “Just answer the question, Scofield.”

He’d much rather reach up and tug her down into his lap and cover her mouth with his, but he’d hate to appear dismissive of the conversation at hand. “Uh, chicken?”

She smiles. “You sure?”

He levels a mild scowl in her direction. He dislikes giving an answer when he doesn’t know the whole question, something Sara knows better than almost anyone. But today (and indeed on most days, it seems) he’s prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Beef.”

Her smile becomes a smirk. “Okay.”

She vanishes inside the sprawling wooden house that will be their home for the next three months, her auburn ponytail swinging in time with a lively step that belies the late afternoon heat. He watches the sun continue its painfully slow dip towards the haze of the blue horizon for precisely two minutes, then gives into the temptation to follow her.

After spending the last week signing affidavits and swearing declarations and making travel arrangements, it had been with a lighthearted air that Lincoln and LJ had headed out to the local market earlier that day. The result of their journey is now spread out across the kitchen counter and he studies the groceries, grinning. A theme has very quickly become apparent. “I thought you weren’t a burrito kind of girl.”

She quirks one elegantly shaped eyebrow at him. “It depends on the burrito.” She gestures towards the counter. The jar of blood-red salsa looks as though it might melt his tongue at twenty paces, and there isn’t a single word of English written on any of the packaged ingredients. “These ones won’t be microwaved, for one thing.”

He chuckles as he makes his way towards the huge but ancient refrigerator. “You know you’re setting a dangerous precedent by cooking dinner on our first real night here.”

She flashes him a look that makes him feel as though his insides are glowing. “I’m cooking what I feel like eating,” she says tartly, her fingertips brushing his as she accepts one of the bottles of water he’d retrieved from the refrigerator. “I’m just nice enough to share it around.”

Amused, he leans one hip against the counter, knowing that no sunset could compete with the sight of Sara Tancredi gazing at an array of spices as though she’s preparing for a medical procedure. “You want to eat chilies in this heat?"

She shoots him a deceptively demure look. "Chilies make you sweat, and the sweat cools you down."

"Like drinking tea in India," he suggests lightly, and she smiles.

"Exactly."

"Where’s the chicken?”

She looks at him, a packet of cumin dangling from her fingertips. “What?”

He slides his hand along the edge of the counter top, closing the distance between them in two slow strides. “You asked if I wanted chicken or beef,” he reminds her mildly, watching a faint flutter of something that looks a lot like mischief dance across her face, “but the only meat in the refrigerator is chuck steak.”

She blinks, then shakes her head, her lips curving in a wry smile. “Must you notice _everything_?"

He grins. "Yes."

"Linc and LJ forgot to buy any chicken. I still wanted to give you a choice, though.” Her gaze catches his and holds it for several heartbeats, and something deep in his chest tightens.

“What would you have done if I’d had my heart set on chicken?”

She shrugs, stepping towards him at the same time he curls his hand around the curve of her hip. He can feel the heat of her skin beneath the worn fabric of her cut-off shorts, a heat that kindles a spark in his blood. “I would have thought of something.” She opens her mouth to say something else, but he’s already kissing her, tasting the salt on her upper lip and the faintest hint of lip balm and _her_ , tracing the shape of her lips with his tongue and teeth.

Dinner preparations can wait, he thinks.

She sighs into his mouth, her hands sliding beneath his t-shirt to scratch his back lightly, her fingertips ten tiny points of distraction on his overheated skin. One subtle shift of her hips and she’s pressed against him tightly, all soft curves and roaming hands. The warmth of her breasts rise against his chest, the zipper of her cut-off jean shorts pressing into his suddenly aching groin with a precision that makes his knees weaken. As always, desire arrives with a heady rush, hunger clawing at his belly and his cock, thrumming through his blood with a bite to rival the hottest fresh chili.

Lifting his head, he only has time to say her name before she’s steering them towards the bedroom they’d claimed for themselves the night before. Last night they’d been too exhausted to do anything more than simply hold each other, but it seems that a good night’s sleep makes all the difference.

The overhead fan whirrs frantically above them as they tumble onto the bed, hands tugging at zippers and buttons and flinging clothing carelessly aside. Drawing him down to her, she cups his face in her hands, her eyes searching his. “I love you,” he tells her, then she’s arching beneath him and he’s sinking into her and it’s hot and sweaty and fast and clumsy and he can’t remember the last time anything felt this good.

She comes with a soft gasp of delight, her hands clutching at his hips, pulling him deeper inside her as she falls hard, taking him with her. He closes his eyes, her name a benediction on his tongue as he loses himself in her with a fierce, pulsing pleasure.

They lie sprawled together, the sound of their labored breath mingling with the steady hum of the ceiling fan. Cupping one breast lazily in his hand, he touches his tongue to delicate curve of her shoulder. “You taste good.”

“Salty,” she murmurs in a voice thick with completion, and despite his current condition, he feels his toes curl. He runs his fingers through her tangled hair, and the scent of citrus shampoo teases his nose. Sweet and spicy, fire and ice. She’s the most beautiful contradiction he’s ever known, and she’s here with him, lying in his arms. He has dragged her through hell and back twice over, and yet she’s chosen to stay with him, and sometimes he can scarcely make himself believe it.

“I like salt.”

She shifts against him, hooking one long leg around his, her dark eyes glittering as she gazes up at him. “I can’t believe we’re actually here.”

He smiles. It’s not the first time her thoughts have mirrored his own, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. “If you can’t believe we’re in bed together, Doctor Tancredi, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

She chuckles, her toes languidly brushing the instep of his right foot. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” He threads his fingers through her hair, admiring the reddish gleam against his tanned knuckles. “You know, you don’t have to cook dinner. We can all pitch in.”

“Don't give me too much credit.” Turning her head, she presses a lingering kiss to his chest, just above his heart, and his pulse flutters at the simple gesture. “I just really wanted to have burritos tonight.”

He rests his chin on her shoulder, curling his arm around the dip of her waist. Her back is damp with sweat, her skin clinging to his as their bodies cool beneath the spinning fan. He's a fan of the hot chili theory, but he's very happy to have found a such a pleasurable alternative. “Does this mean I’ll be cooking filet mignon tomorrow night?”

Her soft laughter is a sound he knows he’ll never get tired of hearing. “There’s no rush, Scofield.” Her hand comes up to cover his where it rests on her belly, her fingers tangling through his. “I can wait.”

 

~*~


End file.
